I’ve heard it said that when chance meetings reoccur, particularly three days in a row, it is best to pay attention. Let me tell you, then, about Piccolo.
Day I
Walking down the rue Manin toward Martha’s Place, I cross paths with a geriatric Jack Russel terrier. He has a confused but strangely concentrated look and he is trembling. As he trots woodenly on the end of a leash, it becomes clear that arthritis has forced his elbows and hocks into retirement.
I stop to say hello.
“Je vous présente Piccolo, Madame, » says the person, his care-giver, on the opposite end of the leash. I greet Piccolo by name then and hold out my hand for a sniff-shake.
“Piccolo ne picole pas,” declares Piccolo’s care-giver. She has a Mickey Rooney face, and one expects a certain degree of mischief from it. I take note of her red nose. “Il a dix-sept ans, Piccolo. Et il ne picole pas,” she insists. I nod my head in acknowledgement. Piccolo is certainly no drinker, but his name is game for the playground.
A woman in a trench coat walks by and sings out in soprano: “Bonjour Piccolo!” She accents each syllable in the egalitarian manner of La République. Pi-cco-lo.
“Vous voyez, Madame, tout le monde connaît Piccolo,” the care-giver affirms proudly. “Piccolo ne picole pas!” she shouts out to the woman in the trench coat who has already crossed the street up ahead.
“Au revoir, Piccolo. Au revoir, Madame.”
Day 2
I spy Piccolo and his care-giver parked beneath a chestnut tree, rue Manin.
“Bonjour Madame, bonjour Piccolo,” I call out.
“Ah, vous connaissez Piccolo! Tout le monde connaît Piccolo, Madame.” She doesn’t remember me from the day before but when you’re the care-taker of a canine celebrity, you can’t be expected to recall all the faces. “Piccolo a dix-sept ans!” she exclaims. (Piccolo is seventeen)
“Et il ne picole pas,” I add. (And he doesn’t drink)
“Exact! Vous savez, Madame, je vais vous raconter une petite blague. Alors, dites-moi, qui est le meilleur ami du chien?” (Exactly! Now I’ll tell you a little joke, Madame. Tell me, who is dog’s best friend?)
“L’homme?” I offer. Man is dog’s best friend, if we reverse the maxim. I wonder where this joke is going…
“Mais pas n’importe quel homme, Madame! Dites moi, qu’est-ce que les chiens aiment manger?” Not just any man… right. And what do dogs like to eat? Hmm… Chunky Morsels? Moist and Meaty? I ponder this for a moment and figure the most universal of dog foods is probably crunchy dog chow.
“Croquettes?” I suggest, finding the French word she expected.
“Oui, c’est ça, alors… qui est le meilleur ami du chien ?”
“Monsieur Croquette?” I try.
“Ah non, Madame! Mais vous n’etes pas loin. Le meilleur ami du chien c’est Davy Crocket!”
Day 3
Rue Manin. Piccolo is trying to lift the old haunch to get friendly with a tree. He attempts a squirt but nothing comes out.
“Bonjour Piccolo!”
“Ah Bonjour Madame! Do you know Piccolo?”
“Yes, I met him the day before yesterday, saw him again yesterday and now I feel we are firmly acquainted. »
Piccolo approaches and gives my hand a sniff test. Though ancient, his olfactory talents remain unimpaired.
“Ah! You see, Madame, Piccolo likes you! Piccolo never lies.”
“But he does tremble.” I observe Piccolo for a moment. It looks like he is blanketed in hoarfrost and shivering with cold, though the weather is mild.
“Does he need to wear a doggie coat ? Is he cold ?» I venture.
“Mais non, Madame! Piccolo n’a pas froid, mais pas du tout! (Piccolo is not cold, not at all!) C’est un hot-dog!”
So there, my friends, is the story of Piccollo and his care-taker, as it happened last week. Why I met them both three days in a row and what these encounters portend, only the Almighty knows. Perhaps there is a place for the hokey and the pokey, and if so, my friends, I have honoured it here.